


Laundry Day

by antierotic



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:16:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antierotic/pseuds/antierotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonnibel is having a rough time at the laundromat before she gets a little help. </p>
<p>Cute, short, sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

This week was not on your side. And this fucking dryer isn’t looking like its gonna help you out either.

You slam a palm against the slightly warm glass of the machine, glaring at your own reflection that it gave off. The dumb thing stole yet another quarter from you, and still was yet to provide any type of additional service to your newly-washed whites.

It wasn’t that you were above regular laundromats; you just preferred to use your washer at home. But the thing quit on you, right when you got bacterial broth all over your lab coat. So here you are, contemplating the shitty luck you’re enduring. Isn’t it enough that you had to come drive all the way here on your day off? You consider giving it all up and just buying new underwear on the way home.

You seem to be gaining an audience among the other customers in the laundromat. Some continue folding, while watching you huff and puff at the incorrigible dryer. Now you’re leaning your forehead against the coin slot as you’re quickly losing hope—but finally, some assistance shows up.

“Hey girl, that’s not how you ask a robot to do you favors.”

You look up, angling your face to be able to see the girl without displacing your forehead’s position. The girl seems wrung out—skin pale like it’s bleached, but inky hair like a broken pen. She’s clad in her Laundry Day outfit; a mismatched combo of a university pullover and ratty jeans. But somehow, it still fits so well. Still perfect.

“Rough week?” You nod, forehead smudging against the metal slot. “Let me guess,” she throws a shoulder near you, opening the machine and rummaged her hands inside. “Your dryer at home is busted?” You’re watching her make for the top of the inside of the wretched machine as you hear all your coins clatter back to the return slot, miraculously with happy _krr-chinks_.

“My washer,” you correct. Awe-inspiring. You’ve seen babies be delivered before your eyes, bombs built, bombs detonated. But somehow, this is truly a captivating feat.

You do believe in pheromones; you must be reacting to some chemical scent coming from her, mixing in your hormones. That’s what makes your heart beat fast, and you take extra care in how you stand, where you look. But to her, it seems so easy and natural.

She pulls out of the dryer, goofy smile flashing an array of sharp pearls. “Alright, _alright_ ,” she sighs, like she’s relenting. She starts picking the quarters out of the slot, thoughtfully. “I’ll do you one more favor—I’ll take you out for coffee, fine.” One by one, she presses each coin into your palm until she’s done. “But, promise I’ll get to see these babies in action sometime?”

She stretches a delicate pair of panties made of pale pink lace between her fingers. You snatch them away heavy-handedly, while stuttering, “You—you!”

“Marceline,” she laughs.


End file.
